


In the Days That Follow

by totheletter



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:49:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totheletter/pseuds/totheletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Madison prepares to leave on his first road trip after The Collision, Buster is having trouble dealing with his boyfriend's absence, the loss of his season and the long road to recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Days That Follow

**Disclaimer:** Total and complete B.S. Even more so than those supermarket tabloids you claim not to read, but secretly scan the headlines anyway when you're standing in line.

"You don't have to do this," Posey sighed.

"I know," Bumgarner replied.

"You really don't have to do this," Posey said, more insistent this time.

Bumgarner shut the cabinet door and smiled. "I heard you the first time," he said. "And you're wasting your breath."

Posey rolled his eyes. "I know."

"One more sack out in the truck," Madison said. "I'll be right back." He grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter and walked out Posey's front door.

Buster sighed and sat back down on the sofa, placing his crutches off to the side. He wished he could throw the damn things into the bay, but he needed them for another month-and-a-half or more, according to the doctors. He shoved some paper plates containing the remnants of pizza to another part of the coffee table in front of him. He couldn't remember if the pizza had been Saturday or Sunday night, but the fact that half-bitten crusts and crumbs still sat there reminded him how much harder even the simplest of tasks had become. The trash can under the kitchen sink might as well have been half a mile away. Buster hefted the stiff cast confining his left leg onto the table and carefully set it down. He tried not to think about the steel pins now holding the bones in his leg together.

It had been two weeks since that horrible Wednesday night in May, when what should have been a routine play turned to pure fire in Buster's leg and left him prostrate, clawing at the dirt in front of home plate. He'd never been in so much pain in his life. He couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but lay there on his stomach, praying for something to make the pain stop.

The kid, some scrub from the Marlins, didn't mean to do it. Buster knew that. But that didn't make the pain go away. It didn't prevent the surgery. It sure as hell wouldn't bring Posey's season back. A year of his career was gone in an instant.

The surgery to drive long steel pins into his fibula came a few days later. He slept, fitfully, in his own bed again three days after that. Buster hadn't been able to bring himself to watch the tape of the collision. He heard descriptions of it from friends who called him later, offering their weak sympathies and statements of anger toward the guy that did this to him. He pretended to listen to their rants, but it was all noise to Buster. His friends and family could still walk on their own. Every time Posey got up to take a piss, he felt like he was carrying the steel towers of the Bay Bridge under each arm. He tried being as gracious as he could to the well-wishers, but they would never understand. They didn't know what it was like living in a damaged body for the greater part of a year. Buster hoped they'd never have to find out.

Posey let his head flop back, hitting the wall with a dull THUD. "This fucking sucks," he muttered.

Madison grabbed the last grocery bag out of his truck. A can rolled out and fell into the floorboard. Madison sighed and set the bag down on the sidewalk. He stretched his frame as far as it would go, reaching to the passenger-side floorboard. He grasped it with his fingers and pulled it into his big palm. He studied it carefully. Madison told Buster picking up some groceries was the least he could do. And he was right. The pitcher wanted to take the pain out of Buster's body and put it in his own. The team's shining star should have been on the field where he belonged, not reduced to being a prisoner in his own home. The rehab wouldn't start for a while, leaving Buster to slowly drive himself crazy with boredom.

Bumgarner watched the collision unfold from the dugout. He saw what was coming before Buster did. He saw the scrub lower his shoulder and take aim at Posey, who couldn't see anything down the baseline. Madison's stomach clenched in fear, but there was nothing he could do. He watched his boyfriend writhe in agony and he felt the rage rise in his veins when he saw the other guy stand up and walk away a few moments later.

Madison didn't realize he'd been squeezing the can so tightly until he felt a sharp pain in his hand. Jarring himself out of his thoughts, he tossed the can back into the grocery bag. He picked up the bag and kicked the truck door shut with his foot. When he came back into Buster's apartment, the catcher was idly flipping through a magazine. He twisted his head slightly to recognize Bumgarner and then carelessly tossed the periodical onto the coffee table. He looked at the cups and plates from previous meals scattered around the living room. Dirty clothes were thrown into small piles in different corners. Newspapers stacked up on the coffee table. He sighed.

"Didn't you guys just get back from a road trip?" Buster asked. He wasn't looking at Bumgarner; his attention drifted to something outside the window.

"Yeah. Milwaukee," Madison responded. "Then St. Louis."

"Right. I have a hard time remembering that."

Bumgarner leaned out from behind the fridge door and gave Buster a pained smile. "You were on those knockout drugs most of the week. You didn't know where _you_ were."

Posey's fingers drummed a pointless little rhythm on the armrest of the couch. "What time are you guys leaving, again?"

"Plane leaves at 3:00, so I need to get out of here in...shit, less than an hour."

"To Cincinnati, right?"

"Yup. And Pittsburgh."

"Okay."

An uncomfortable silence set in.

Buster held out his right arm, fingertips reaching for Madison. "C'mere." Bumgarner took his hand and knelt in front of the sofa, trying to read the catcher's tired, red eyes.

"This is gonna sound stupid." He blew an exhausted breath past his lips. "I don't want you to go."

Bumgarner winced. "Buster, you know I can't. As much as I want to. I can't."

Buster didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the window.

Madison suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though realizing for the first time he was not in his boyfriend's home, but in some unsettling, unfamiliar place far away. He cleared his throat. "We're, ah, we're only gonna be gone for six days. That's hardly nothin'. By the time you realize we're gone, we'll be back already."

Buster absentmindedly rubbed his thumb across Bumgarner's knuckles. The pitcher scoured his brain for something positive to say.

"Everyone was real happy to see you the other day," he said, the enthusiasm in his voice flat and artificial. "I didn't tell 'em you were coming to the clubhouse. I kept it a secret. They were all surprised, I tell ya."

Buster finally pulled his attention away from the window and looked at Bumgarner. He squeezed his hand and offered a small smile. "It was good to see the guys. Hadn't seen Crawford in a while. Everyone looked good. Clubhouse looked the same, even my locker. Boch still looked the same, though. And Timmy."

Madison took the older man's remark as permission to unleash a toothy grin. "Of course they look the same. It's only been a week, Buster."

"It feels like it's been a month."

Bumgarner's smile faded. "I know," he said. He felt his lower legs begin to tingle as his circulation tailed off. He'd been squatting on the balls of his feet for too long. He placed Buster's hand back on the armrest. Grunting, he stood back up, unfurling to his full height. He shook one leg, then the other, to restore some blood and get the feeling back.

Desperate to change the subject, Madison gestured toward the freezer and announced, "I put some popsicles in there. Bomb Pops -- I know they're your favorite."

"Okay."

"I really can't stay here."

"I know," Buster said. "It was a stupid thing for me to say."

Madison remained silent.

"It's just, you know...we just won the Series. Hell of a season. My rookie year." He smiled bitterly. "This is when we're supposed to be _in it_ , Bum. You and me, out there fightin' every day to defend the title. Now look at me."

He tossed off a gesture at his orange gauze-swaddled leg. "Useless. This whole year is gone."

"I'd give anything to have you back out there behind the plate," Madison said. "You know I would. And I wish I could stay here with you. But we're in the wrong line of work for that. I wish we weren't. I want to stay here with you, Buster. That's what I want to do. I want to make sure you have everything you need. We could spend the whole morning reading those old magazines your mom sent last month, and then we could make fun of the people on _Judge Judy_ because there ain't anything else on at two o'clock. And then we could take a nap because that's what we wanted to do."

Madison's voice rose into higher registers as he continued. "And I could make dinner and you could kick my ass at _Jeopardy!_ for the gazillionth time and then we'd go to bed and _that's what I want to do this week_. And I can't do that! I am letting you down because _I can't do any of that!_ "

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Madison took a few long steps over to the front door. He peered through the peephole.

"It's Matt and Chelsea," he said.

Posey thought for a moment. "Sheez. Let 'em in," he said.

Madison opened the door. Chelsea rushed in ahead of Matt, all smiles and sugar and hope. It made Buster's stomach turn.

"Hi, you guys!" she chirped. She immediately bounded to the sofa, awkwardly wrapping her arms around Buster and giving him a hug. "You look so good," she said, brushing a wayward strand of hair out of her face. "Matt told me you would. You're such a trooper."

Buster grunted his assent.

"And look at your cast! Giants orange. I should have known! Can I sign it?"

"People aren't really doin--"

"Matt, honey, get me a marker so I can sign Buster's cast."

Matt held up a bag he'd carried in. "Hands are full, hon."

Madison rolled his eyes. "I'll get one." He went back into Buster's room to dig a marker out of a desk drawer.

When he reappeared a few moments later, Chelsea was perched on the edge of the coffee table, amiably chatting with Buster. The catcher wondered if he hit Chelsea with his cast, just enough to knock her into the floor, would she buy his explanation that it had been an accident?

"Oh, look!" she said. "Madison's back!" Her enthusiasm indicated he had been gone on some kind of polar expedition for several months, instead of in the adjacent room, looking under a pile of his own boxers to find a Sharpie. "Here," she said, reaching for the marker. Madison leaned over Buster to hand it to her.

Bumgarner straightened back up and looked at Cain. "Sorry," Matt whispered, shrugging. "She was dead-set on coming over to cheer him up."

"There," she said, admiring her handiwork. Buster didn't even look down at what she'd written. She didn't seem to notice. "Time for the big reveal! Matt, sweetie. Show them what we brought!"

Matt walked to the big card table that doubled as Buster's dining room furniture and turned the paper sack in his hands upside-down. Brightly-colored pieces of paper flowed out, making a huge pile on the table.

Turning back to Buster, Chelsea smiled and exclaimed, "They're get well cards people have been sending in to the team since you got hurt!"

"There's tons more back at the ballpark," Matt said.

Chelsea stood up and walked over the the card table, grabbing an armful of the cards and returning to Buster's side. "Look at all these. There are so many from kids. Oh, look! That one is a drawing of you!"

She pointed at a stick figure rendered in black crayon. His round face was frowning, and his stick leg was bound in a rectangle. Buster gave no reaction. Chelsea plowed on. "They even got the cast in there. Cute! And this one says, 'We Miss You Buster.' Aww." She clutched the card to her chest.

_Dear God, I can read. You don't have to tell me every single damned word,_ Buster thought. He returned to his plot to gently bump Cain's wife off the table and claim it was an accident.

Cain pulled Bumgarner aside and took him into the kitchen. He spoke in low, measured tones. "I know it's going to be hard for you this time, with him here by himself," he began. "I know what he means to you. But he's going to be fine, and so are you. I need--" He quickly corrected himself. "-- _we_ need you to keep your head on the field and in the game."

Bumgarner wordlessly nodded his agreement.

Cain reached around his shoulders and pulled the kid in for a side-hug. "I believe in you. You're not going to let us down. And you're not going to let Buster down. You're a sweet guy. A good man. I'm dead serious about that. You are a good man, all the way around."

"Thank you," Madison said, barely above a whisper. He couldn't think of any other way to react to Cain's pep talk, or whatever it was supposed to be.

The two men stepped back out of the kitchen and Matt cleared his throat.

"Chels, we've got to go. I gotta drop you back off with the baby before I head down to the airport."

Chelsea nodded and stood up. She patted Buster's shoulder. "It was so good to see you. We'll come back for a visit when Matt gets back in town."

Matt wrapped an arm around his wife's waist as they walked to the door. Buster mouthed a 'thank you' to the ceiling and Bumgarner had to stifle a laugh.

"You need a ride to the airport?" Matt asked.

Bumgarner shook his head. "I'm drivin' myself. But thanks."

Chelsea gave Bumgarner a tight hug. Her head came up only to his chest. "You two are so cute together. He's going to be fine while you're gone. I just know it."

"Thanks," Madison said. The Cains walked out the door and down the front steps. Madison watched from the door and issued a brief wave when they pulled into the street and drove off. He closed the door and exhaled loudly.

"Man, she's a handful," he said, closing his eyes. "Cainer has the patience of Job."

Buster wasn't listening. He looked at the mini-pile of cards Chelsea had dumped into his lap.

"I've got to put a few more things in my bag, and then I have to go on down to the airport," Madison said.

"Yeah."

Madison went back into the bedroom, and Buster could hear the sound of fabric rustling over fabric as Bumgarner tossed whatever articles of clothing he could find into his duffel bag. Buster didn't shift his eyes away from the greeting cards. Most of them were handmade; many by children, but not all of them. Here were complete strangers, people he'd never meet, sending him wishes of goodwill. He looked at the return addresses on the envelopes. Most were from the Bay Area, but there was Oregon. One from Nevada. Several from his hometown in Georgia. At random, he opened one from Sausalito and read the folded construction paper that tumbled out.

"Buster," the unsteady penmanship read, "My brother broke his leg last year. And he was sad. Mom told me you broke your leg, too. And you're probbly sad about that. I would be. GET BETTER SOON!!!!!"

He read the next one. It was in a cursive written by an adult hand. "Here's a picture of my son Jacob and daughter Karyn playing hospital. My son is wearing his Buster Posey jersey, and you can see Karyn has wrapped his leg in paper towels. They heard about your injury and wanted to make sure you knew they were thinking about you. We all are. Get well, Buster."

And the words flowed forth. Children and their parents sending joint messages about how much they missed him. A kid in San Luis Obispo talking about how his Buster Posey poster was his most treasured possession. A mom from Olympia writing to say how her seven-year-old son was nearly inconsolable after he found out his favorite baseball player had gotten a bad 'owie.' A dad from Hollister who said his son wouldn't stop talking about Buster Posey after they met him at an autograph signing in San Jose. Posey couldn't even remember the event he was talking about, but it made this kid's day. Hell, his _year_.

Tears formed in Buster's eyes. When he finally closed them, a rivulet trickled down his right cheek. He could read no more. He set the cards on the table in front of him and tried to regain his composure.

Of course, Madison picked that very moment to come back into the living room, rolling suitcase and duffel in tow. He looked at Buster. "Hey, are you all right?" he said, his voice filled with concern. "Are you in pain?"

Buster's head dipped slightly. "No. Bum, come over here and sit down."

Madison set his bag on the floor. He walked around the coffee table, careful not to bump Buster's cast, and sat down next to him. Posey looked down at his hands, now cradled in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"About what?"

"The way I've been acting. The stuff I've been saying."

"It's all ri--"

"No," Posey said, cutting Bumgarner off. "It isn't. I've had a bad couple of weeks, a _really_ bad couple of weeks, but that doesn't give me the right to be an asshole to you."

He looked back up at Bumgarner. "You've done everything you can, and more. And I've been a jerk ever since I got back from the hospital. I really am sorry."

"I know, Buster. And I'm telling you forget about it. Water under the bridge."

Posey seized a fistful of the get well cards and held them up. "You see these? People all over the country are telling me how much I mean to them. They're saying they want me to get better because they love watching me play. They don't know me. But they're sitting down to write me letters. What have I done to deserve that?"

Bumgarner put a hand on Posey's shoulder and squeezed. "That right there. That you even had to ask the question. People love you because you're great. And not just at baseball. You don't have a mean bone in your body. Anyone who sees you for more than five minutes _has_ to know that."

"Jesus," Posey whispered, and more tears welled in his eyes.

Bumgarner hated to do it, but he snuck a glance at his watch. He was already behind schedule. Posey saw the pitcher checking the time.

"You should go. I don't want you to be late."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Madison leaned over and kissed Posey's forehead. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'm gonna miss you, too."

Bumgarner took a long look at Posey, then stood and walked back over to retrieve his luggage. He slung the duffel bag strap over a shoulder and grabbed the handle of the rolling suitcase. He walked past the kitchen and opened the front door.

"Madison?" Buster called, softly. Bumgarner turned around. It was rare that Posey addressed him by his first name instead of a nickname.

"Be careful out there."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. I will."

"I love you."

Bumgarner's chest tightened and he felt a lump in his throat. "Love you, too," he croaked. He cleared his throat and raised his hand. Buster raised his in return. Madison closed the door and walked down the stairs. He tossed his bags into the bed of the pickup and climbed into the cab. He fired up the engine and pulled out into the street, his GPS gently guiding him toward SFO. It took him a few minutes to realize the windshield wasn't fogging up; his own eyes were wet with tears.

Back in the apartment, Buster looked at the stack of cards on the endtable, and the larger pile Matt dumped on the dining room table. He looked back at the hellacious mess his apartment had become. He dragged his cast-bound leg off the coffee table and reached for the crutches. Jamming one each under his arms, he stood and picked up some of the paper plates that piled high on the coffee table.

"Place ain't gonna clean itself up," he said, hobbling into the kitchen to toss the plates into the trash can. "I got six days to get this place back into shape."

He wobbled back to the living room and smiled.

"I love a challenge."


End file.
